Page 37 of Emma on Fire

Never mind that she’s been blowing off homework all semester. Never mind that she’s usually too wrecked to brush her teeth at night, or that she barely sleeps in the first place. Never mind that she only uses her laptop for posting incendiary YouTube videos. Grades, gingivitis, insomnia—they don’t matter when you’re dead.

Lori’s voice is gentle when she answers. “I know this isn’t what you want, Emma. But it’s important for you to be here. A lot of people are worried about you. We need to keep you safe.”

Emma walks over to the casement window, cranks it open, and leans out. Twenty feet below: hydrangea bushes, not yet blooming, and the footpath to the library and the theater building. “It wouldn’t be hard to jump,” she says mildly. “If I really wanted to get out of here.”

Why does she even say this? She’s not going to jump. It’s not part of the plan, and it certainly wouldn’t kill her. Also, she knows enough about her rights to know that they can’t keep her here against her will.

In an instant, Lori’s hands are on Emma’s shoulders again, and this time her touch isn’t gentle. “I need you to promise me that you’re not going to do that.” The therapist’s gaze is frightened. Urgent.

“I’m not going to jump out the window,” Emma says. She’s really not, so it’s an easy promise to make. She pulls away from the therapist’s grip. “I’m also not going to hurt myself in my dorm room, so I think you should let me go back there.”

I could burn in the newspaper office. Or at the Ridgemont radio station. Somewhere in the media arts building, anyway. I need a door with a lock.

Am I going to have to disable sprinklers? I don’t know how to disable sprinklers.

“Like I said,” Lori says, “this is only temporary. I’ll have Jade pack up your things. What do you need to make yourself comfortable here?”

Emma realizes that there’s no talking her way out of this, at least not tonight. She sighs. She perches on the ledge of the open window, purposely trying to make Lori nervous, as she reluctantly lists the items she wants—her velvet pillow, her slippers, her sweatpants, Advil. When she mentions her laptop and phone, though, Lori shakes her head.

“Tonight should be a time of pure rest,” she says.

Emma widens her eyes at her. “You’re afraid I’m going to make another video!”

Lori chooses to ignore this, which means that Emma’s right.

“You can read a book, write in a journal … There’s a radio here, see?” Lori smiles. “You can just enjoy a little peace and quiet.”

“I haven’t been able to enjoy anything since Claire died,” Emma snaps. “Don’t make this out like it’s some kind of staycation. This is Ridgemont’s version of a padded cell.”

“Emma”—Lori sighs—“we aren’t locking you up. We’re just keeping an eye on you.”

“Is there a cot? Are you going to sleep here too? Should we make it a goddamn slumber party?” With each sentence, Emma’s volume climbs. This isn’t how the plan was supposed to go. She was going to borrow Celia’s car tonight, but now she’s locked in the administration building.

“Someone will be outside your door, but you will have privacy, don’t worry,” Lori says gently. “But I think there are some people who’d like to come see you.”

Emma rolls her eyes. “Great. Visiting hours at the jail.”

She walks over to the window again, her thoughts like dark clouds, swirling. She wonders if she could get Pringles and a canister of gas from Circle K with Uber Eats.

“Can I get you anything?” Lori asks. “Tell me what you need.”

A gallon or two of unleaded,Emma thinks.

“No,” she says.

CHAPTER 26

THE PEMBERLY GUEST room is twice as big as Emma’s dorm double, and it takes her twelve seconds to make a lap. She feels like a cheetah in a zoo, wearing a path around the perimeter of a chain-link enclosure.

Cheetahs are threatened with extinction due to habitat loss, poaching, and the illegal pet trade.

She makes her hands into fists.Come on, Emma. Figure it out, problem solver. How do you overcome the obstacles and achieve the goal?

Three species of tigers are already extinct.

She pauses at the window. It’s evening now, and the light slants golden across the quad. She can see Elliott passing a football with a senior whose name she forgets. Braydon or Caden or Aiden—another rich white boy witha beach house on Cape Cod and a spot waiting for him at Harvard in the fall.

You think the world can’t touch you,she thinks, as he runs toward the ball with an easy, graceful lope.

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